


“¡Maldito Bastardo!” - “Fottuto Bastardo!”

by J_Flattermann



Series: Ran and Diego [1]
Category: Alatriste - All Media Types, Caravaggio
Genre: Crossover Pairings, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Flattermann/pseuds/J_Flattermann





	“¡Maldito Bastardo!” - “Fottuto Bastardo!”

****[](http://pics.livejournal.com/j_flattermann/pic/00207ayp/)[](http://pics.livejournal.com/j_flattermann/pic/00208q8p/)  
  
Happy Halloween, dear Barb.

 

Scary Door – Trick or Treat

 

 **“¡Maldito Bastardo!” - “Fottuto Bastardo!”**    
(both means «Fucking Bastard!»)

  
Pairing: Diego Alatriste / Gualterio Malatesta aka Ranuccio Tomassoni

Disclaimer: Pure Fiction. None of these characters is mine. Written for fun and the scary door trick or treat for friend savageseraph. No copyright infringement intended.

  
Warning: Foul language in Spanish and Italian. Translated in footnotes.

Genre: Slash  
Rating: NC-17 / Adult  
A/N: Thanks to my friend bluegerl who helped as Beta. My apologies to all who find the character of Diego Alatriste not as in the movie or the books, I know neither and made him up as I wrote along.  
  


 

 

 **“¡Maldito Bastardo!” - “Fottuto Bastardo!”**  
  
  
Afterwards nobody could say who had started it. Not that they were “best of friends”. On the contrary, they didn't even share the same social circles. Under normal circumstances they would never have met for they didn't even share the same home country.

 

But as always exceptional circumstances in their case war had thrown them together.

 

 

A Spaniard and an Italian, or rather Sicilian, with orders to enter England and kill, assassinate the Prince of Wales and his companion the Duke of Buckingham. As if this wasn't difficult and dangerous enough, the man he, Diego Alatriste, had to deal with made use of every chance to get himself into trouble. On board the vessel that brought them to England the guy had been involved in two fist fights and three knife fights with other passengers and the crew. They had almost been dumped off in France if he hadn't intervened.

 

 

The fellow called himself Gualterio Malatesta, but Diego feared that this wasn't his real name. He had witnessed several times now that somebody had called out the fellow's name and he failed to react. If the given name was indeed his own, then such a thing never could have happened. Diego wasn't even to sure about those Sicilian roots the man claimed to have. To begin with he wasn't dark haired but rather blond, the black in his hair was nothing but dye. Diego had seen it mingled in the fellow's sweat, leaving stains on his neck and shirt. 

 

 

The Spaniard rather assumed that this man was from the northern provinces of Italy. Italian he was, so much for sure, nobody could imitate the Italian streetslang to perfection. No, the guy was Italian.

 

Diego was almost sure that his companion was in hiding, therefore the masquerade. Underneath that roguish behaviour lay hidden a good education and a broad knowledge. Diego doubted that he was dealing with a bastard son, no, this education was genuine and only a son of a well-to-do man would receive such a learning.

 

 

He tried to wrack his brain as to how on earth he had got into this mess. But his head hurt and so did every muscle and bone in his entire body. He groaned as he tried to sit up. His clothes were torn leaving him half naked, his torso dirty, sweaty and smeared with blood. His fingers tested his nose gingerly; it still hurt but had stopped bleeding.

 

 

He turned his head with a hiss of pain and looked at the rolled up figure of his companion. The flaming idiot who had started all this nonsense. The bruises on his face and body were just starting to gain colour. His body and face were smeared with the same stains as Diego's. Diego wondered whether the blood on his body was his own or the Italian's, and then put the question one step further to whether the blood on the Italian was his own or the Italian's. In the end it didn't matter, both were bloodied and bruised, and all for a stupid dare.

 

 

 

 

 

Earlier that day they had arrived in London and mingled with the masses on the docks. A few inquiries and they had managed to get a name of an Inn where they could stay the night. On arrival at their night quarter the Italian had flung his luggage onto the bed and giving him a dirty grin, had gone out, down into the Pub. Diego had decided to follow knowing that his companion was a good for nothing who clearly would get himself into trouble again. So he watched as the Italian sat down with some other fellas to play dice. Diego had made an oath to himself not to use his companion's name until he had found out the real name, Gualterio Malatesta sounded too suspicious to be true.

 

Some half-way through the evening the guys at the dice table called him over. They were missing a man as one of them had to leave. So it all had begun, and before he knew a very drunken Italian had challenged him to a fist fight.

 

They both, he had to agree, had drunk too much and he blamed this for why he had agreed. They both disposed of their jackets whilst the other guys moved chairs and desk aside. Diego wondered why the pub’s landlord would agree to them having a fight in his establishment. When he looked over at the guy he saw him placing bets with the rest of the punters. Diego shook his head and sighed. He looked at the Italian who was just now wrapping some rags around his knuckles. So Diego looked around and grabbed some spare ones for himself. This was totally idiotic. Unfortunately, now he wasn't drunk enough anymore to see the fun.

  
  


The Italian started his warming up, punching the air and dribbling to the left and right. Diego was watching intensely. The Italian clearly favoured his left hand. This was good to know.

 

Not to give the Italian the same opportunity, Diego turned his back to him when starting his warming. He began with stretching arms and legs and his rump. Then he started with a couple of test punches.

 

 

The men began to form around an somewhat oval space and Diego felt somebody grabbing his shoulder and shove him into the make-shift boxing ring. At the other end the Italian was skipping from one foot to the other, trying to keep his muscles warm. Then it all happened very fast. He was pushed forward, so was the Italian. The men shouted excitedly, and he raised his arms and ducked away as best as he could whilst the Italian was lashing out with his fists in the direction of his chest and face. The first hit almost pushed all the air out of his lungs. But it helped to set his brain on autopilot.

 

 

Their fists flew, he heard the dull THUD when fist hit flesh, and the crunch of knuckles on bones. He tasted the metallic aroma of blood on his lips whenever his tongue flicked out to wet them. His vision became blurred. It only focussed on the Italian's fists - the rest of the world around him swam in a fuzzily opaque bright light. Then suddenly, it went all dark. He knew instinctively that he was knocked out.

 

 

  
  


Diego woke aching all over his body, even in places where he know the Italian hadn't hit. Next to him the Italian was rolled up into a fetal possition. Angry red blotches on his back near his kidneys confirmed that the punters must have attacked them both, obviously not happy with the outcome of the fight. Diego assumed that they had knocked each other out at the same time.

 

 

Looking about him, he found that they had been dragged into a corner of the room, but now they were alone. Each muscle in his body was crying in protest as he got up onto his feet. The Italian still didn't move. He staggered a little but then steadied himself and walked the few steps around the Italian's body to check on him. Carefully rolling him over onto his back, the motion cause his companion to moan. Diego could only assume that he looked as bad as his fellow fighter. The punters had tried to kick his face, but the Italian had been able to protect himself with his arms.

 

 

Diego knew that his body would object, but he couldn't possibly leave the guy lying there. So he heaved him up onto his shoulder and, carefully steadying himself with a hand to the wall, lifted himself and his additional weight up.

 

 

 _What a nonsense_ , he thought whilst pulling himself and the man on his shoulder up the stairs to their room.  _We should be lying low, instead we fight each other attracting unnecessary attention. Diego, I thought you were wiser, I erred._

 

  
He reached their room and dropped his companion on his bed. If he didn’t came come round soon, it would spell trouble for both of them. They had been acting mindlessly enough. Just then the Italian moved, eyelids fluttering, and then his eyes opened. “Oh. Oh.” He groaned as he tried to sit up.

 

 

“Where are we?” Looking around trying to figure it out.

 

 

“It’s our room. Had to carry you up.”

 

 

“OH. Oh. My head and my back are killing me.”

 

 

“Don’t blame me for your back. I'll take responsibility for the headaches, though.” Diego said, and grabbed the water-jug, filled one of the earthenware cups. He crossed the room and handed the cup to the Italian.

 

 

“Grazie. Mille Grazie, amico.”

 

 

“De nada, amigo.”

 

 

“We should be more careful in future.” Diego said sitting down on the bed next to his companion. “We should be out spying on our target instead of trying to bash our own heads in. Don't you agree?” The Italian tried to nod but got nauseous immediately. Diego had just time to push a bucket between the man's feet. “You better lie down again. Looks like your head received one hit to many.”

 

“Andate tutto a 'fanculo!1” The Italian swore at Diego who replied, "¡Cagaste y saltaste en la caca!2” Turned, and left the Italian alone, banging the door on the way out.

  
“Vaffanculo a Lei, la sua moglie, e' la sua madre. Lei e' un cafoen stronzo. Io non mangio in questo merdaio! Vada via in culo!3”

 

 

 

“¡Barboso!4” Diego muttered in anger as he walked down the road to cool off his temper. It took him about an hour to calm himself. He had walked without noticing where he went and now that his anger had flown, he looked around and found himself lost. “¡Tonta!5 Where the hell am I?”

 

 

 

It was getting dark and the streets were very poorly lit. A man rushed past and he called out “¡Hola! Hello, sir! Please!” The man stopped. “Excuse me, but where am I? You see, I am estrange. I live in an Inn called “The George Inn”. Where do I have to go to get there?”

 

The man shrugged, “Neva 'eared off!” he replied and tried to rush on.

 

  
“Please! It is in Southwalk.”

 

 

 

“Southwalk, 'eh? OK, see the end of the road up there? There you turn left. And from there you just follow the main route. It's more or less straight ahead.” With these words the man turned and rushed away.

 

 

 

“¡Gracias!” Diego shouted after him, and went the way the man had pointed out to him.

 

 

 

About an hour later he found his surroundings were more familiar. Yes, this was the place he had set out from, and there, further up the road was the sign of his Inn. “¡Muchas gracias, santa Maria!” He crossed himself as he entered the Inn.

 

 

 

He went into the room and found the Italian sitting at the table by the window. He was eating, and opposite him was another plate and a mug with beer.

 

 

 

“Ciao bello6! Where have you been? Sit down, eat, drink.” Diego sat down and helped himself to cold meat and bread and had a good swig on the beer. “Figurati7.” The Italian said as Diego failed to thank him and helped himself to another beer out of the pitcher.

 

 

 

“¡Escuchar! Listen! We need to work together, if you like it or not. And believe me, I would rather do it on my own, myself. But, here we are!” Diego said and took another mouthful of beef.

 

 

 

“Si, capisce8! So what is on your mind?”

 

 

 

“First of all, what is your real name? I don't buy this crapshit Malatesta. So what are you called?”

 

 

The Italian grinned the dirtiest grin Diego had ever come upon. He giggled “Che cazzo stai dicendo?9”

 

 

 

“Oh, come on, Gualterio? What a shit name is that? That's never your name, nor are you a Sicilian.”

 

 

 

The Italian scratched his scalp. “How do you know, eh spacchiu10? Nessuno me lo ficca in culo11!”

 

 

 

Diego grinned, “Is that so, amigo?” He laughed out loud and then added “You are fair haired not dark, your eyes are green not dark brown or black. Do you need to hear more, maricón12?”

 

 

 

The Italian jumped up throwing his chair over and flicked a knife. But to his surprise, Diego jumped at him, swishing the knife out of his hand, pinning him against the wall with his left arm over the throat and shoulder bone.

 

 

 

“No me jodas. Don’t fuck with me.” Diego hissed and put more pressure on his grip. “¡No me vengas con esa mierda!13 ¡Derrame hacia fuera!14”

 

 

 

The two men were panting, each one trying to gain or keep control. Diego could feel the Italian growing hard against his body, and his own response. His prey grinned.

 

 

 

“OK, testa di merda15. My name is Ranuccio Tomassoni.”

 

 

 

“And what are you hiding from?” Diego enquired further.

 

 

 

“A man in Rome is charged with my murder.” The Italian said calmly.

 

 

 

  
"¡Mierda! And you let that happen?” Ranuccio only nodded. “Why?”

 

 

 

“He deserves it, il finocchio16. Left me with a nice present. Shall remind me of him for the rest of my life.” Ranuccio stretched his neck and Diego saw a long nasty scar running across the throat. He gasped and let go, but Ranuccio grabbed him by his head and pulled him close again. He pressed his lips hard on Diego's. “Non dirmi che non lo vogliono.17”

 

 

 

Diego responded immediately by hugging Ranuccio close. The Italian started to stir them in the direction of the bed whilst Diego fumbled with his shirt and pants. “¡Espera!18 The bed is to small. Let's push the two together.” He said, and Ranuccio went straight to work.

 

 

 

This done Ranuccio shed his clothes, and the two crashed down onto the beds. Fighting over who to be top and who to be bottom, they rolled over and over, kissing, swearing, licking and sucking. Fingers grabbing, stroking and scratching.

 

 

 

“Lasciatemi prima, per favore.19” Ranuccio begged. But Diego misunderstood and pushed Ranuccio down, lifted the Italian's arse and entered his fingers. The man was not at all tight, but tense.

 

  
“¡Relájate!20” Diego pinched the buttock and Ranuccio relaxed. Diego, waiting for this moment, pushed his cock deep into Ranuccio. The Italian threw his head back and arching up, spread his legs to allow Diego to push even deeper.

 

 

 

The climax came fast for both and Diego collapsed on top of Ranuccio. Both men gasping for breath. “Scendere21! You are too heavy. I can't breath.” Ranuccio said and pushed Diego off. Diego rolled over. They waited a while and then Ranuccio said “Now is my turn.”

 

Diego gasped under the knowledgable hands of the Italian. “Ran, where have you learned these things?”

 

Ranuccio only grinned and carried on. “Ooooh. Sí, sí. ¡Mas, mas! ¡Allí, exactamente allí!22”

 

 

The next morning Diego woke with Ranuccio cuddled close to him. He smiled, now they would be working together as a team. He was looking forward to it.

 

\----------------------------------------------------  


1 Italian Translates “You can go and fuck yourself.”

 

  


2 Spanish Translates “You shit and jumped in it.”

 

  


3 Italian Translates “You, sir, go fuck yourself – and your wife and your mother. You are a common turd! I'm not going to eat in this shithouse. Fuck you!”

 

  


4 Spanish Translates “Retard!”

 

  


5 Spanish Translates “Bollocks!”

 

  


6 Italian Translates “Hello, pretty one.” (The recipient is a male.)

 

  


7 Italian Translates “No need to mention.”

 

  


8 Italian Translates “Yes, understood!”

 

  


9 Italian Translates “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

  


10 Italian Translates “Sperm or cum”

 

  


11 Italian Translates “Nobody fucks me up the arse.”

 

  


12 Spanish Translates “Faggot” (literally meaning “Butterfly”)

 

  


13 Spanish Translates “Don't give me that shit!”

 

  


14 Spanish Translates “Spill it out!”

 

  


15 Italian Translates “Shithead.”

 

  


16 Italian Translates “the faggot.”

 

  


17 Italian Translates “Don't tell me you don't want it.”

 

  


18 Spanish Translates “Wait!”

 

  


19 Italian Translates “Let me first, please.”

 

  


20 Spanish Translates “Relax!”

 

  


21 Italian Translates “Get off!”

 

  


22 Spanish Translates “Yes, yes. More, more. There, exactly there.”


End file.
